


tethered

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: BDSM, Established Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Incest, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-24
Updated: 2016-05-24
Packaged: 2018-06-10 10:26:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6952930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is abducted by vampires, and on his return, he's distant. Untethered. It's not something Sam has ever dealt with.<br/>He finds the solution by accident.</p>
            </blockquote>





	tethered

**Author's Note:**

> For the [Supernatural Kink Big Bang](http://spnkinkbb.tumblr.com/). Amazing artworks by [Dreamer_of_Improbable_Dreams](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreamer_of_Improbable_Dreams/profile), who is [seafoxfire](http://seafoxfire.tumblr.com/) on tumblr. You can find the original art post to reblog [here](http://seafoxfire.tumblr.com/tagged/spn-kink-bb). (There is a second piece coming which I'll add when I can!)  
> Thank you so much to [ohlookitsashton](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ohlookitsashton/profile), the beta, as well!

It’s a bad week. But it always is, when there’s an abduction. Or vampires. An abduction by vampires is bound to compound the problem. And, to start with, Sam knows nothing of where Dean might be. What part of the country, even.

The ransom is a knife. Used to kill vampires, so sure, they don’t want it in the Winchesters’ arsenal. Problem is… Sam doesn’t have it; it was stolen six months ago, and he doesn’t know by who. But they call, they torture Dean in the background so Sam can hear him crying out and they just. Don’t. Believe him. No matter how many times he says the knife is gone.

There is nothing Sam finds more horrifying than listening to his brother in pain. He’s watched Dean pull bullets out of his own limbs without anything more than tightly gritted teeth. But between screams Dean’s yelling for Sam to ignore these sons of bitches, though he knows there’s no chance of that.

Day six, Sam’s with Bobby and they’re calling everyone they know, trying to find if the thing’s been offered for sale, if anyone’s been bragging about it (assumption always was that another hunter had stolen it). Even trying to find out if vampires have been dropping like flies in any particular part of the country. But it’s not a cold trail – there is just no trail.

Day eight, he’s back on the road, when Bobby calls. The knife has just shown up. Posted. Printed shipping label, and no return address, though it was posted in Bangor. Is there a vampire problem in Maine?

 _Not anymore_ , whispers a voice in the back of Sam’s head.

Maine. If Sam ever figures out who sent the damn thing he doesn’t know whether he’ll kiss them, or break their necks. More than likely he’ll never find out, unless the guilty party decides to call in a favor.

When the vampires call that night, Sam and Bobby are sitting in a motel room in Broken Bow, Nebraska. There’s food, just a couple of nasty burgers and some very cold chips, but it really doesn’t matter because neither of them has much of an appetite.

“Knew you’d come through for us, Sam,” says the vampire in charge of this dumbass plan. “Got a pen?”

“Just tell me where to meet you,” says Sam, through gritted teeth. “You sonofabitch.”

“Insulting me before you’ve even got him back seems like a dumb idea to me, but what would I know? Only eight hundred years old, here.” Sure, sure he is. They all like to pretend they’re ancient. Perfectly straight white teeth, no smallpox scars, and all far too tall to have grown up in any earlier than the late nineteenth century – but fine. He still has a point. Sam closes his eyes and rubs his temple.

“Grand Junction, Colorado, noon tomorrow.”

“And you’ll bring ––”

But it’s too late, the call has ended. Sam sleeps for three hours and eight minutes and hits the road, Bobby bringing up the rear.

––

It nearly becomes a fight when Sam finds out Dean isn’t actually with them. Without Bobby there – it would be a fight. But Bobby’s math is pretty spot on, and when he says two humans (one with a bad knee) against four vampires is bad odds, Sam sort of has to agree.

“He’s fine,” says the leader, who actually _could_ be eight hundred years old, his teeth are that bad. The second set that descend are genuinely nicer. “We turned his phone back on. You’ll find him easy enough. Abandoned cider house in Southeast Kansas. See? Not even far.” He takes a step forward. “You might want to stop at a hospital for some antipsychotics. Some people just don’t take to torture.”

Sam rushes him, but Bobby hauls him back, yelling in his ear about not wanting to rescue Dean and tell him his brother’s dead.

Again.

Sam shrugs him off, and stomps back to the car, already tracing the GPS in Dean’s phone.

––

Dean is barely conscious, when Sam finds him. Not a big surprise. Hands tied behind his back, secured to a wall, all his weight slumped forward until it’s a miracle he hasn’t dislocated both shoulders. He’s shirtless and filthy and covered in bites. He needs a fucking hospital. But Sam hits the ground and holds him for a long moment because he’s alive, and anything but that they can survive.

“Sammy,” Dean says, at last, and Sam brings a bottle of water to his lips. He drinks eagerly. Lips dry and cracked, he’s so dehydrated he can’t really speak. Sam puts the bottle down and goes to work on the knots behind him.

Bobby’s more practical. He’s got a knife. It takes fifteen minutes but they saw through the whole tangle and Dean slumps into Sam’s arms, unconscious again. Back seat with a blanket wrapped around him because he’s so cold he’s nearly blue and Bobby says goodbye. Can’t do a thing for him and he’s got other work needs doing.

Sam spills useless salt water down over his cheeks on the drive to the nearest hospital, and hopes to God (or whoever else is out there, because lately, his faith is wavering) that he’ll make it that far.

––

Dean’s too quiet. Barely argues. Doesn’t complain that they need to leave the hospital. He’s barely even mentioned the knife, hasn’t even issued a vague threat for the person who stole it, and sent it back. No promises of revenge. He doesn’t flinch when they change the dressings on his wrists, the deep rope burns, or the bites (all he’s said about those is that it was too dark to see what was biting him, ha ha).

He barely looks at Sam, and that’s the worst part.

Sam tries to get him talking but it’s like trying to cajole a wall.

They pump him full of painkillers and antibiotics and still he barely says a word. When the lights go out on the ward, Sam reaches for his hand. He pulls away, and rolls until he’s facing the other wall.

“Tired, Sammy. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Four days in the hospital and Sam starts to worry eventually someone’s going to realize their insurance is bogus. The doctor agrees Dean’s well enough to leave, but antibiotics for two weeks because the mouth of any creature is generally filthy (if only she knew). Out in the parking lot Dean heads for the passenger seat, instead of demanding the keys.

Yeah, everything is fucked up.

––

The first night out of the hospital they stay close by. Sam hasn’t picked up a newspaper in days, hasn’t turned on the laptop. There is no hunt. And to be honest all he really wants to do is watch Dean like a hawk and catalogue any glimpses of his actual brother that he might be able to see. The find a motel, nicer than their average (but that bar’s so low you can step over it, so probably not saying a whole lot).

“King or two queens?” asks the conspicuously non-judgmental receptionist, when Sam pulls out his wallet.

“Two queens,” Dean answers, too fast for Sam to react. It’s like a punch in the gut. How long is it since they’ve taken two beds? Two years at least, even if the months often feel like they’re running together at times. Fucking vampires. As soon as someone shows up sporting fangs the world goes to hell. But Sam says nothing, just hands over a credit card he’s never used before and takes a handful of fast food menus.

At first glance none of them have a big section for healthier options. But the funny thing about feeling like shit? You tend to want to eat it, as well.

––

Sam is staring at the ceiling. It’s not that dark. Too much outdoor lighting. Wearing sweatpants, that’s all, and alright, maybe he’d hoped that Dean seeing him fresh from a shower without a shirt on might remind him that the only answer to ‘king or two queens’ is ‘king’. He’s never been hard to motivate. But he’d barely glanced up before he’d headed for the bathroom, pushing the door closed with more force than was strictly necessary.

He hadn’t even said goodnight before he’d wormed his way under the covers in a t-shirt and boxer shorts and switched off the bedside light.

Next morning, things seemed better. Sam doesn’t trust it. He’s woken by Dean waving a cup of coffee under his nose. Smells good, but not as good as the cooked breakfast on the table, cheese omelets with bacon and pallid toast, baked beans and hash. But Sam’s never been able to rid himself of his optimistic streak. He cautiously broaches the topic of finding a hunt and Dean’s answering grin, and wink, makes his heart pound madly in his chest.

“Five steps ahead of you, Sammy,” he says. This should be a clue. Sam can almost see him waking at four. Taking the laptop and searching for something to do. But he’s Dean. Feels like Dean, looks like Dean, so Sam gives him a smile. He’s rewarded with Dean’s fingers in his hair.

He’d rather have a kiss.

They could go back to bed.

They really could.

“Think there’s a cursed object in play in Hugo, Oklahoma. Get this, the town’s named after Victor Hugo. Don’t tell me that doesn’t get your nerd gland hard. They’re opening a small museum next month and right after receiving a container load of props and curios and… I don’t even know what else, people involved in gettin’ the thing going just started dying. No sleep for a week, and then just dead. And get this – all they could do was write. This guy, Owen McBride, first one to die… he wrote almost a quarter of a million words in six days.”

Almost two thousand words an hour. Would have come in handy in college.

“Hugo it is,” Sam says, and it’s in him to reach across the table and pat Dean’s arm but, land mines aren’t always found in the ground.

––

In Hugo, with a tobacco tin locked up tight in a magic lock box stowed safely in the trunk, Sam broaches the idea of going after the vampires. Dean shrugs it off. There’s a poltergeist in a fire house in St Louis. In St Louis, things get ugly.

––

Maybe it’s better. Maybe things had to get ugly. All Sam is sure of is that Dean (having asked for twin beds again and broken Sam’s heart into increasingly smaller pieces) headed to the bathroom to wash blood off his face and arm (poltergeist threw twenty plates at them in very rapid succession and Sam looks like he got beaten up by a backhoe himself) and lost his shit.

Sam opens the door just as Dean smashes the mirror on the wall; the flimsy shower curtain has already been dragged down, pulling the rail with it, tangled with the towels and apparently the rail they were hanging from only moments ago. Dean has his hands on the sink when Sam pushes forward, grabbing him under the arms and hauling him back into the room. Might be a mistake – Dean goes for the television and Sam barely stops him in time, pinning him to the ground, taking advantage of every inch and every pound he has on Dean, which suddenly doesn’t seem like enough.

“Sammy!” Dean hollers.

“No, Dean, you’re not trashing this room,” Sam says, reaching for the duffel full of weapons, which is, thankfully, sitting by the television.

“What, you’re gonna shoot me?”

“Thinking about it,” Sam growls, but he pulls a pair of cuffs from the side pocket.

“Sonofabitch,” Dean growls, struggling desperately, but Sam cuffs one wrist, drags it around to his back, and after a struggle, gets the other one cuffed as well. He feels physically sick putting cuffs around the rope burns but Dean’s not weak and he’s not small either and if he throws that television at, say, Sam, it’s not going to end well. So Sam pretends there’s nothing beneath those bandages but clean, pink skin, and he does what he has to.

Dean struggles, swears, threatens, and then…he just goes limp.

Sam, still straddling his back, blinks in confusion. “Dean?”

Dean says nothing, but his breath has slowed and evened out, and when Sam presses two cautious fingers to his throat, his pulse has begun to slow as well.

He rolls off Dean’s back, and Dean makes no effort to so much as get to his knees.

“Dean?”

“Yeah.” He sounds drunk. He sounds stoned. There’s still blood on his forehead from earlier but now his knuckles are bloodied as well, and there are nicks on his face from shattered glass. When he sits up, Sam can just barely see it all, and Dean’s eyelashes.

“You calm?”

Dean hesitates. “Yeah. Sorry.”

Sam steps over his body to fish the keys out of the bottom of the bag, but when he reaches for Dean’s wrists, his brother pulls away. “Just leave them.”

It makes no sense at all to Sam, but he tucks the key into his pocket for safekeeping and drops to the ground again. Against the wall, where he can see Dean’s face, the deep, even breathing, the lips slightly parted. The t-shirt Dean is wearing is almost too small for him, leaving little to the imagination, and not a thing, where it was pushed up in the struggle, leaving a wide strip of flesh exposed. The ridges of muscle that twist around the sides of Dean’s body are irresistible. Dean has barely let Sam touch him since the rescue and Sam hasn’t really tried. But that skin. He stares for a good three minutes, and reaches out, thick, strong fingers uncurling, the pads tentatively pressing into Dean’s skin.

He’s expecting Dean to lash out. So much so that he’s scolding himself before he even makes contact, but Dean just relaxes further, and Sam gets bold, slipping his fingers under the edge of the soft cotton.

“Think I might be fucked up,” he says. Sam doesn’t answer. What is he supposed to say? The last two weeks have been hell. Dean gone. Dean back. Hard to say which was harder.

He slips his fingers into Dean’s, and Dean clutches weakly at them. Shouldn’t be a turn on to see Dean bound and passive like this, but it is.

“Yeah, well, we’ve dealt with worse,” Sam says, and he strokes over Dean’s hair, sifting it through his fingers until Dean lets out a half strangled moan. “Why have we got separate beds, Dean?”

Dean says nothing, and on impulse, Sam suddenly tightens his grip in his brother’s hair, pulls back just enough to lift his head off the ground. Dean’s mouth falls open and he shiver, pink tongue darting out to moisten his lips. Sam’s cock twitches, but he keeps his focus. “Why are we in separate beds?”

“I don’t know,” Dean says, but Sam think it’s more a total inability to string a sentence together right now than anything else. Sam eases him down, and cards through that short, rough hair again.

“We’re sharing tonight,” he says, and Dean doesn’t argue. They’re like that a long time, Sam’s soft touches and Dean’s steady breathing, but there is still showering that needs doing and they’re both in dire need of sleep. Second time Sam pulls out the key, Dean doesn’t object. Still it takes him forever to get to his knees, and accept Sam’s help getting to his feet.

Sam leaves him sitting on the couch while he sweeps up the glass in the bathroom. It’s mostly large shards, but he’s thorough, with a dustpan and broom fetched from the cupboard under the sink in the kitchenette. He wraps up the glass in the morning paper and puts it in the trash. Not much to do for the towel rail or the curtain rail, though, and Sam makes a mental note to destroy the credit card they’d used here the day before.

Comes as something of a shock when he has to help Dean out of his clothes, but he goes with it. They spend a long time under the water, Sam washing blood from his face, cleaning the burns around his wrists.

They’re getting better. Still pretty nasty.

Sam dries Dean off, as best he can with his brother still looking so spacy, and leads him to the bed furthest from the door. It’s early. Too early for bed, probably, but they’ll need to hit the road before anyone can see them, with the mess in here, so it doesn’t seem like the worst idea. Sam plasters himself to Dean’s back, and sleeps better than he has since Dean disappeared.

––

Dean is subdued in the morning, which is better than the alternative. They pack and leave, figuring they can find a truck stop to eat breakfast in (Sam can feel his arteries hardening; it’s been a bad couple of weeks, food-wise), find a new job or at least just get the hell out of here before the police get called. Or at least before the police can find them.

There’s a call, which is good. A possession. About a day’s drive if they share the driving, and considering Dean didn’t even try to stop Sam from getting in the front seat it’s a reasonable call to say they’ll manage. They arrive close to nine and take yet another ugly motel room, and Sam announces he’s going to get pizza down the block.

Next door to the pizza place is a sex shop.

Sam blushes just looking at it, at the display in the window. And it’s open. He supposes people don’t want to buy a… what does that even say? _Widow-making dildo_? At nine in the morning. He glances around. Street is empty. He steps closer to the window. There’s shit he doesn’t even recognize. He wonders what essential class he missed in basic anatomy, that he can’t even work out what _that_ thing is for.

He’s inside before he can talk himself out of it.

The store is packed, shelves too close together, and Sam has a horrifying image in his head, of knocking down a display of something he’ll be too embarrassed to pick up. But embarrassed or not, he’s intrigued. He stands in front of a display of gags – all kinds. Some buckle at the back, others you tie. One looks like a dentist might use it to hold an unconscious patient’s mouth open, and Sam imagines it strapped around Dean’s head, wet mouth gaping, saliva running down his chin while Sam fucks his throat. One shaped like a cock – very anatomically specific, if not huge, but Sam can only imagine Dean trying to swallow around it while Sam fucks him brutally from behind.

He bites his tongue to stop a murmur escaping his throat.

Something more familiar is a red ball, but it already looks dull in comparison.

“Can I help you?”

Sam almost jumps out of his skin. The voice is coming from a girl so small he could fit her in his jeans pocket, dressed simply enough in a black, body-fitting dress, tight enough so he can count the piercings, though he tries not to look.

“I’m thank,” he says, more loudly and aggressively than he intends, and blushes again. “I mean. I’m fine. Thank you.”

“First time?”

She doesn’t look patronizing. Just offering cheerful customer service. Sam blushes again. “Yeah.”

“So, maybe you do need some help,” she says, but Sam can’t even speak. His mouth has gone completely dry, looking at a range of ropes coiled on the wall. “Silk. It’s easier on the skin. You don’t want your little sub to get hurt. Or are you looking for someone to tie you up?”

Sam swallows, or tries to. “It’s for…someone who I…I want to tie someone up,” he says, heart racing and eyes prickling in some previously undescribed combination of panic and arousal. _I want to tie someone up_. Did he really just say that?

“Pity. I would have volunteered,” she says, and it’s undoubtedly just her stock standard flirting with the customers to get their wallets nice and supple, but Sam goes right on blushing. “I can give you some pamphlets, recommend some websites.”

Sam wants to die, and there’s no more blood in his body that is able to reach his burning cheeks. He will never be able to come through this town again.

“Let’s start with the rope,” the girl says, gently, and Sam forces himself to nod.

––

The pizza isn’t exactly hot by the time Sam gets back to the motel, with his illicit bag of goodies burning a hole under the passenger seat of the car. But Dean doesn’t comment. Sam is kinda sick of this up and down. Dean’s too subdued, and then he’s so full of rage he nearly got them both arrested this afternoon in a truck stop, buying gas. Sam has barely seen a smile in days and, when he does, it’s forced. This isn’t Dean. If not for the fact that he’s already dumped half a bottle of holy water in Dean’s coffee he’d be gearing up for an exorcism.

Two slices of pizza and Dean’s lost interest, dropping onto the couch to watch uninspired television.

They’re supposed to be in _love_.

Fine, it’s wrong, whatever, but it’s been years since they did all the ‘I’m fucked up’, ‘no I’m fucked up’ shit and they’re past it. They do what they do and they don’t talk about it. Share a bed everywhere they go, until this week. Morning sex and shower sex and back seat of the Impala sex Dean usually punctuates by bitching about Sam getting come on the seats. They even hit a gay bar every now and then (not that either of them can dance for shit; it’s just nice to be able to kiss in public without eyes on them every now and again).

They’re supposed to be in love, they’re supposed to be a team. But Dean’s on the couch watching the auditions for America’s Got Talent and he’s not even laughing. Hasn’t asked about tomorrow’s job or where they might go next. He’s completely uninterested.

Sam throws the leftover pizza into the tiny refrigerator (he’s tempted to make it the trash, and would, if not for the mild hope that Dean might eat some more later on). He sits at the dining table and boots up the laptop.

He shouldn’t be drinking coffee. Half wired from drinking it all day in the car, and that’s probably why his head aches, but Sam makes himself a cup anyway, crappy freeze-dried stuff. Even a vending machine might do better. He pours in a little creamer, and returns to the laptop.

“You know there’s like fifty channels, Dean,” he says, bored, but Dean doesn’t even stir. He certainly doesn’t reach for the remote. Sam is safe enough. He pulls his hair back into a short ponytail high on his head, snapping the elastic band, and still Dean doesn’t react. His green eyes don’t swivel in Sam’s direction, sparkling because the way he loves Sam’s hair tied back that way borders on unnatural. It’s depressing but it’s handy.

Surreptitiously, Sam opens a browser window and types out one of the URLs the girl gave him (Raven, she’d called herself, and then shrugged it off ten minutes later and admitted her name was actually Shannon and she couldn’t make a nickname stick to save herself. Sam hadn’t been paying much attention, picturing Dean impaled on a dildo the size of his entire forearm, complete with fist).

It’s more complicated than Sam had realized.

Mostly, Sam’s used to tying up creatures that are in dire need of being tortured mostly to death, and then either killed or exorcised. He doesn’t care about their circulation, their comfort, any of it. This is an entirely different barrel of monkeys. Thank God for the internet, because who could he possibly ask for help with this? He reads, he looks through a gallery of images that make his heart race wildly in his chest, guys in submissive poses, their faces slack and relaxed.

Some of it is horrible. Seems like some people find their way into this life looking for an excuse to beat someone up and face no consequences, a license for abuse, and that doesn’t interest Sam at all.

He gets so absorbed he never notices Dean get up off the couch, doesn’t realize his brother is standing behind him until Dean’s hand finds the back of his chair.

“What are you doing?”

He sounds annoyed, maybe, partly. Sounds intrigued, mostly. Sam sits back in his chair and lets his hands fall into his lap. Dean’s fingers brush just barely over his shoulder and it’s the most contact he’s initiated in days.

“I don’t know how to help you,” Sam admits.

“And you think tying me up and… Christ, Sam.”

“The other night I handcuffed you. You seemed better.”

Dean says nothing.

“Will you at least try to tell me what’s going on in your head?”

Dean says nothing. And more of that. And then he reaches down and taps the ‘next’ button, bringing up an image of a guy tied and trussed so well he can’t close his knees. He’s hard, leaking pre-come, and there is a finger under his chin, forcing him to look up.

“I might be fucked up,” Dean says, “but I’m not that fucked up.”

Sam’s heart drops into his stomach, and he closes the window. “I know. I just thought...Doesn’t matter.”

––

The job is a bastard, and it wouldn’t be quite so bad if Dean’s foul mood wasn’t about to get them arrested for impersonating the FBI. Sam’s genuinely tempted to knock him unconscious with a plank of wood and take him to a cabin in the woods somewhere miles from civilization until he can get his shit together. When Dean tries to take a swing at the local Sheriff Sam catches his wrist and forces it behind his back, apologizing profusely while frog marching him back to the car.

“Are you trying to get us both arrested?” he hisses. “Did you forget that, if our faces show up in a database somewhere, we’re both wanted in _multiple states_? Not to mention dead.” He forces Dean into the car and slams the door, taking the driver’s seat because Dean would probably get them into a wreck right now.

They have a motel room already. Different ugly wallpaper, same generally horrible feel of doom that they always seem to end up with. Sam slams the door behind them and Dean turns on him, fists clenched.

“You’re out of control,” Sam says. “You’re terrifying, Dean. You’re gonna get us killed or worse. What do you want, huh?” He rounds on his brother. He teeth are bared, but he’s barely conscious of it. “You wanna forget these jobs and go after the vampires?”

“I don’t know, Sam, that doesn’t sound like the worst idea you’ve had. You could have taken that goddamn knife, killed them all and then come after me, couldn’t you? Instead you let them go, after what they did to me.”

“What did they do to you?” Sam’s heart sinks.

“The hell do you think? They fed off me, forced me to drink blood. Toyed with me day in and day out, told me they were gonna kill me and turn me and send me to kill you. Only time they left me alone was when I was tied to that wall.” He’s cheeks are flushed, there’s sweat building around his hairline. He’s going to ruin his suit. Muscles flexing dangerously beneath the fabric like he’s going to Hulk out and tear the thing apart (and that’s a Dean reference, not a Sam reference, which is annoying and sort of embarrassing at the same time, but Sam’s head is always so full of Dean). “No weapons. Completely stoned for days and the only…”

The only time he was safe was tied to the wall, and now he’s untethered, floating. Bouncing off the walls and the ceiling and every person who pisses him off. Sam feels his shoulders slump.

“Let me help you,” he says, and Dean shoots him such a look of revulsion that Sam flinches, and walks out of the motel room again. Out for a hard walk in the cold air.

––

By the time Sam gets back, Dean is subdued. He has a drink in his hand and is sitting at one end of the couch in an old, soft, flannel shirt, staring into nothing.

“This is how we deal with our crap now, is it? You leave?”

“That’s not fair,” Sam says, pulling his tie out of his pocket and taking his jacket off, hanging it in the closet. Too rumpled, this time around. There’s gotta be a better way to transport a suit than folded up in a duffel bag. “I’m trying, Dean.”

“So I see.”

Sam turns to say something biting but he stops dead. Dean has the bag. It’s been sitting under the passenger seat for two days and Sam had managed to put it out of his mind; had half a plan to throw it in a garbage can first chance he got. But Dean has it. Rope and gags and dildos and all and for a second the mere thought of Dean having touched all of those things sends a shock of need that goes straight to Sam’s balls.

“Dean…”

Dean turns, but not much, not even looking over his shoulder, only enough to tell Sam he’s heard the tone in his voice. And he doesn’t like it, probably. Sam sighs. Maybe they should have got separate beds.

Separate rooms.

Starting to feel like their lives are diverging in ways Sam hates.

“You wanna tie me up.” It’s not a question. Sam takes off his shirt and sets it in a pile because he’s going to have to do some laundry before they leave, tomorrow, if they’re going to leave.

“I thought it might help,” he says, hating the defeated tone in his voice.

“Sam.”

Sam meets Dean’s eyes and he’s definitely looking now.

“You want to tie me up?”

Sam swallows, but doesn’t look away. “Yes.”

Dean holds his gaze for another moment and his eyes drift back to the table.

Sam steps out of the scratchy gray suit pants and hangs them in the wardrobe, alongside the jacket. He catches sight of himself in the full length mirror on the back of the wardrobe door. It’s cloudy with age and the silver backing has worn away in places, like mildew got in. But Sam strikes himself as unrecognizable. There’s still a fourteen year old kid in here who’s smaller than average and six inches shorter than his brother was at the same age.

Sam steps into a pair of sweatpants, blushing hard enough to burn.

“Think it’d work?”

He looks up again. Dean has a gag in his hand. It buckles at the back. Rubber cock that’d hold Dean’s mouth wide open, that’d have him dribbling over his chin. Eye glazed, Sam working him open with his fingers, splitting him open on his cock. Sam stands behind Dean, and traces his hairline with one finger.

Dean shivers. This time, there’s no revulsion.

Sam keeps moving his fingers until they card through Dean’s hair, and he takes a handful. Before Dean has a chance to ask what he’s doing, he pulls, enough to shock, to hurt just a little.

When Dean opens his eyes, they already look a little shocky, and his face has gone slack. Sam traces Dean’s lips with one finger, and slips it inside Dean’s mouth. He adds another, and Dean can’t help but suck, for a moment.

“I think it’d help,” Sam says, and he barely even recognizes the commanding tone in his voice. “You want to feel safe. You feel safe bound. You know you’re safe with me.” He pulls his fingers out of his brother’s mouth, pushes them in again, pushing down against his tongue. “I can make you feel safe, Dean.”

He lets go of Dean’s hair, and scratches over his scalp. Dean’s eyes close, and he settles against the back of the couch.

He reaches for Sam’s wrist, pulling Sam’s hand away from his mouth.

“Do it.”

––

Instinct tells Sam not to put it off. Not to push. To keep it simple, despite the way his heart slams into his chest and his brain is running a porn reel so filthy he thinks he still might be blushing. He’s always thought of himself as a prude. Or no, not a prude, he likes sex, but the temptation to move beyond vanilla has never really reared its head.  

Even as he considers this fact, he’s forced to remind himself he’s spent the last several years in a monogamous sexual relationship with his own brother. Maybe ‘vanilla’ is relative.

But. Now. Now is the time to start this. While Dean isn’t laughing at him, doesn’t look angry or disgusted or any other of the thousands of deeply upsetting expressions he has worn over the last couple of weeks, since the rescue. Not passive.

He looks resigned to trying this Sam’s way; and he looks ever so slightly optimistic, though this could be Sam’s own hope skewing his perceptions. He sits on the couch, probably waiting to be told what to do, his consent all he’s been able to manage for the time being. Two little syllables. _Do it_.

“Take your shirt off,” Sam says, as he sits on the armchair, picking out his tools. Dean doesn’t move, for a long moment, and then he shrugs, and pulls his shirt over his head. Sam has never been able to just not look at his brother, partly clothed, completely naked, draped in a towel; since he was a kid and realized no girl in one of their dad’s skin mags could get him hard as fast as the sight of Dean, skin gleaming with sweat that ran in rivulets over his face and his back, walking through a motel room or crappy rental with a towel tied tightly over his hips. The dimples at the base of his spine might be the worst and as Dean walks to the kitchenette to pour himself some water (Sam just knows his mouth has gone dry, the same as Sam’s has) it’s to those dimples that Sam’s gaze drops.

Dean drinks two glasses of water in quick succession and half turns to Sam.

“What are you gonna do?”

He sounds so unsure Sam thinks this might be a moment to backtrack fast, say he was kidding, say he’s sorry, say literally anything to get that pissed off tone back into his brother’s voice again.

“Thought I’d keep it simple. I just want to touch you, Dean. I feel like I haven’t touched you in weeks.”

Dean looks like he’s planning to argue this point. After all, they’re sharing a bed again. He’s waking up with Sam’s morning wood pressed against the crack of his ass. But he doesn’t say a word, because it’s true. They haven’t really touched at all. He gives a nod, and looks around the room.

“Where?”

The answer is obvious. Stupid ensemble beds have no posts or slats, couch doesn’t help. The dining table is fixed in place, thought. Not the most romantic image, when Sam comes to think about it, but this is supposed to be practical, his raging hard-on notwithstanding.

“Table,” he says, and Dean doesn’t even look across, just nods into the sink. Sam stands up, and crosses the small room, pressing his body behind Dean’s. He hooks his chin over Dean’s shoulder and runs his hand down over Dean’s hips.

“You need a safety word.”

“Goddammit Sammy, I’m banning you from the internet. I don’t care what the other boys are allowed to look at.”

“Safe word.”

“Not if you’re keepin’ it light, Sammy, fu–”

Sam has both his hands held tight behind his back, his own hand a steel cable around Dean’s wrist. He wonders, briefly, how much additional pressure it would take to break one of the small bones in Dean’s wrist. He presses his lips to Dean’s throat and pushes just a little harder, until Dean’s head rolls back and his breathing begins to labor.

“Safe word, Dean.”

Dean seems to sag against him, awkward as it is with his hands held there. Good. He’s not exactly supposed to be comfortable. “Fuck, Sammy. Lima beans.”

“You hate lima beans.”

“So it’s unlikely to come up in dirty talk. If you’re gonna do this fuckin’ do it, Sammy, because I can’t –”

But Sam has him moving, only a few feet to the dining table, easing him down onto his knees in such a way he’d hit the ground without Sam’s support. He seems to realize it, every muscle in his body so gloriously tense it must almost hurt, and he groans as Sam settles him. His eyes are closed, long eyelashes catching the low light of the room, the lightshade cover so filthy the room looks almost like it was lit romantically on purpose.

“Don’t move,” Sam says. He gives Dean’s shoulder a warning squeeze, and returns to the table. Just rope, only rope, though he gives the gags a longing look. No, he’s not going to push it far, not tonight. He kneels beside Dean, hands trembling, and wraps the rope around his wrists, a simple cow hitch that shouldn’t be too hard to disengage if Dean loses his shit – which could definitely happen. He’s pulling, now. If he relaxes and sits back Sam will have him free in a moment.

The knot around the leg of the table is more secure.

“Is it tight enough?” Sam asks, and Dean stares ahead of him at nothing; the back of the couch, ugly floral pattern. Maybe he sees something tucked between the flowers. Negative space in the shape of something he lost once and can’t remember now.

“Dean.”

Dean gives an experimental tug. “It’s fine. Get on with it, would you. I’m tired.” He’s barking commands, taking back control, but his lips are swollen just a touch and his eyes are dark. Sam tugs the ends of the ropes and shifts until Dean is forced to look at him.

“Telling me what to do, Dean?” he asks. His voice is low and quiet but there’s something commanding in it, something he doesn’t recognize. “I don’t think so. I’m calling the shots, now.” He reaches out and flicks his thumbnail over Dean’s nipple, and Dean shudders, pulling suddenly at the rope as though he’s forgotten momentarily that he can’t move. He looks mildly embarrassed. This is, after all, a man who once asked entirely sanguine on a two hundred mile stretch of desert whether engine oil was okay to use as lubricant. Not big on planning. And here he is with his jeans straining and the muscles in his arms obscenely well defined as he pulls experimentally against silk bondage rope.

Sam crouches in front of Dean, who has an expression Sam has never seen before, and likes far too much.

“You’re secure,” he says, and reaches up to run his fingers over Dean’s cheek. Dean strains into the touch, looking ashamed and beautiful and oh-so-fuckable, though that is not on the cards tonight. No, right now Sam has very specific plans; to get the last lines of tension to leave his brother’s forehead, and to make him come.

By the shape of the bulge in Dean’s jeans, the latter isn’t going to be difficult to achieve. But there is no great rush.

Sam lets his fingers move down over Dean’s throat, down to his chest. He pinches sharply at Dean’s nipple, and Dean moans quietly, tugging against the rope. Sam ducks his head and presses his tongue flat against the same nipple, soothing it, finishing with a kiss to the dark pink bud as Dean grunt something that night be his name.

“You must have known I’d come for you,” Sam says evenly. “You must have known I was trying to find you. Did you forget that, Dean? That I move heaven and earth every time something happens to you until I get you back?”

His fingers brush over a nearly healed bite mark in Dean’s side, and Dean flinches.

“Do they still hurt?”

Dean hesitates. “Not really.” It means _yeah, but I don’t wanna talk about it_.

“Skin deep,” Sam says, and moves in closer, pressing his body against Dean’s. It’s fucking awkward, he really hasn’t thought this out, but when he nuzzles into Dean’s throat, Dean lets his head fall back, which is about the best thing in the world. “You’ve had worse.”

“Never said different,” Dean says.

“But it was different.” Sam runs his hands over Dean’s hips, slips his thumbs into the waistband of Dean’s jeans. Dean’s stomach muscles ripple decadently and he pulls at the ropes again.

“Fuck, Sam…”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Anything,” Dean spits, hips jerking forward suddenly as if he’s hoping Sam’s hand will be there waiting. “Distract me.”

“What if I don’t want you distracted? Aren’t you supposed to be learning you’re safe again? Isn’t that the whole point of this?”

Dean’s breathing is labored. Sam’s hands are making him crazy, feather soft touches when he wants to be gripped tight and used. He scrunches his eyes shut again and his mouth falls open, and Sam ups the ante. He presses the palm of his hand to Dean’s erection trapped there behind the denim.

“I’ve missed you. Missed you just as much when I got you back. I need you back, Dean,” he says, and Dean’s strains into the touch. He flicks open the button on Dean’s jeans, and works the zipper down slowly. Every vibration, every tiny bit of friction has Dean pushing against the touch.

“Did you see the plug?” Sam asks. “A little on the big side, but we both know you can take it.”

Dean’s eyes snap open as Sam closes his hand over Dean’s erection, still clothed in his boxer’s shorts.

“One thing at a time,” Dean says, but his eyes are wide and intrigued and he opens his mouth for Sam’s tongue like he’s been dying for it. They’ve never been elegant, kissing. Needy, messy, with more teeth than should be comfortable for anyone, tiny black bumps on their lips where they clash from time to time. Sam pulls back.

“Think you could drive with that thing stuck up inside you? Holding you open for me?”

Dean shudders, and fucks up into Sam’s hand, but it’s still not enough.

“Not binding in the traditional sense,” Sam says, with his mouth still pressed against Dean’s, working his jeans down over his hips. Dean struggles, but moves, helping, needing, wanting. He cries out when Sam’s huge hand wraps around his cock, already weeping, dark purple at the head, prettiest thing Sam’s ever seen – not that he has a lot of experience, past Dean. A few fumbling one night stands with men who looked too much like his brother for comfort, mostly a little older, still completely wrong. _Accept no substitute_. Sam knows every inch of this cock. He’s examined it from every angle, had it in his mouth, had it in his hand, his ass; every vein is intimately familiar, every tiny jerk. “But we’d both know who put it there. We’d both know who you belonged to.”

Dean grunts, and snaps his hips. Too much freedom. Sam wants spreader bars and cuffs, wants to make sure his brother’s knees can’t meet. The thought has him even harder in his sweats.

“Sammy…”

“Is this what you want, Dean?” Sam stops his tease; he doesn’t think they can do this too long tonight anyway. Dean’s face is flushed and his mouth is wet and Sam wants those lips around his cock, but he’s resigned to going unsatisfied tonight. Dean strains against the ropes, fucks up into his hand, lubricated now by a steady stream of pre-come Sam sort of wants to taste but won’t. He’s rough over the base, torturous over the head, his very practiced hand knowing exactly how Dean likes it.

He catches Dean’s mouth in another kiss but Dean is almost too far gone to respond. Usually by now he’d be a steady stream of dirty talk and filthy jokes, but not tonight. Tonight he is putty. Tonight he is murmurs and grunts and ‘Sammy, Sammy’ until Sam closes his hand over Dean’s balls and Dean comes, hard, over Sam’s hand and over his stomach, splattering Sam’s sweats.

And he sags against Sam’s body, face pressed into Sam’s shoulder.

It’s enough, for tonight. Sam holds him like that for a long moment, one hand in his hair and the other brushing fingertips lightly over that dimple at the bas of Dean’s spine.

It’s less effort than he’d even imagined to loose Dean’s wrists from the knot, and Dean looks confused, but he doesn’t comment, letting himself be led to the bed. He crawls across it, soft, sticky cock dragging over the blanket. Sam works his jeans the rest of the ways off, muttering quietly about laundry tomorrow because the clothing situation was getting dire even before Dean came all over them both.

But eventually, he lies alongside Dean, both naked. His erection has lost its urgency; he’s content to let Dean lie in his arms. There’s something he’s supposed to be doing, he thinks, but the only thing that feels right is pressing himself behind Dean’s body to sleep.

Dean is silent for a long time.

“That wasn’t anything, much.”

Sam thinks for a moment.

“I didn’t want to be too hard on you, Dean.”

Dean pushes back against him, still half erect and unsatisfied.

“Next time,” Dean says, “be hard on me.”

Sam’s eyes snap open in the half light, and it takes him hours to get to sleep.

––

The next day is a good day. A couple of hours in city hall after a good breakfast finds them everything they need to end the brief, tyrannical reign of the poltergeist that nearly got them arrested the previous day, and they spend most of the afternoon looking for another job. A quick salt and burn in the dark hours of the morning is all they need to know they can leave. Bonus points for the ghost showing up at the end and going up in flames in front of them, so they don’t have to worry about a third act.

They eat breakfast on the road. Sam with granola and yoghurt and poached fruit, a couple of slices of fruit toast, Dean eating something so disgusting that Sam can feel his arteries hardening just from looking at it, loudly regretting that it’s not possible to get eggs that have been deep fried in bacon fat. His green eyes dance and he spreads out across the bench seat, claiming and taking up space in a way Sam, bigger and taller, has never been able to do.

Sam started to worship his big brother the minute he knew he had one, toddling behind Dean, asking to see what he was holding, what he was doing. Reaching into bags and drawers he knew he shouldn’t, looking for Dean’s secrets. Under the table, Dean bumps his ankle against Sam’s and waggles his eyebrows, expression so slutty and knowing that Sam sort of kinda wants to say _fuck the next job_ and see just how far he can push this thing.

They only drive three hours to get to where they intend to go next and Sam spends the entire time with his laptop wedged uncomfortably in his lap so he can properly examine the hotels, motels, bed and breakfast joints and every other place they could conceivably hang their hats in for the night. Dean’s voice is ringing in his ear.

_Be hard on me._

So they need a place where Sam can secure his brother’s wrists over his head, instead of behind his back. He’s looking for a four poster bed, he thinks. Or slats in the bed head, at a minimum. Is it overly optimistic to think there might be a bed and breakfast place with a dungeon? Maybe not, but with their luck, any such place will be run by demons who sacrifice guests to some long forgotten deity.

Dean is sort of buoyant, cheerful in a way he hasn’t been for a while; maybe even before the abduction. Sam realizes with some consternation that he can’t remember much about the weeks before it happened. Time has stretched and shrunk and changed in a way he doesn’t like and can’t put his finger on. Before and after. Like they don’t have enough defining moments as it is. Another abduction shouldn’t have caused such a rift.

“Research?”

Sam looks up. Dean has a look on his face that suggests he doesn’t actually think the research might be case relevant. Sam grins.

“Sort of.”

Dean focuses on the road for a few minutes, his face set in a smile that is not exactly broad, but is definitely genuine. Sam can cope with that.

“Just trying to find somewhere to stay. How long do you think we’ll need?”

Dean waggles his eyebrows again, and Sam laughs out loud.

He books a cabin, in the end. Four poster bed, cast iron. A fireplace. Dean looks spectacular in the firelight.

––

After a few hours’ work they check into the cabin, silent, maybe nervous, both of them. Sam’s eyes move to the bed frame before he takes in another single thing in the room. It does look strong.

Dean can cook. Most people wouldn’t guess that. But Dean looked after Sam from the time their father decided he was old enough to look after his baby brother, which was was too young, but it doesn’t matter now. At first Dean learned to reheat alphabet soup in a saucepan. And then he learned to make macaroni and cheese. Even figured out vegetables, at some point, though anything beyond pickles and jalapenos is still pretty unusual. And on and on until he could put together a decent meal with minimal ingredients and fewer utensils.

Sam kind of missed it, at Stanford.

Dean sets himself to the task of putting together a couple of steaks, mushroom sauce. A side of broccoli and new potatoes. They stopped in town to do the shopping. Setting himself up to chop vegetables and cook up the sauce Dean cracks a beer, and drinks at least half in one mouthful.

“Just the one,” Sam says, setting himself up on the laptop, watching Dean cook.

“You’re the booze police now? Give it a break, Sammy.”

Sam meets his eyes. “I don’t want you _dull_ ,” he says, and Dean’s eyes darken at the tone in his voice. One beer. He drinks half while he’s cooking and the other half over dinner and he doesn’t utter another word of complaint.

There’s a general sort of argument, the kind that makes up a significant portion of their daily dynamic; what’s that monster? Probably a water ghoul. Could be a water ghoul. Could be a sprite. Could actually be a very human murderer because unless they can either get a hold of the autopsy photographs or the body they can’t really guess any further. They both relax, arguing about the mundane, but Dean sets the empty beer bottle aside so deliberately it has to mean something, and Sam feels his cock twitch.

There’s a general plan for the next day or two by eight o’clock.

Another week – another month, this time last year – Dean might head out to a bar while Sam curled up on the couch to read. Or maybe they’d play some stupid board game; there’s a pile of them on a shelf behind the television neither of them has glanced at. But it’s not another week, and it’s not last year, and Sam takes the plates away and fills the sink with water and suds and they do the dishes and when the dishes are clean but not all dry Sam says, in a voice which is probably equal parts affectionate and menacing, “Take a shower, Dean.”

Dean freezes, reaching for the saucepan, and his glance flicks up to meet Sam’s.

“Dry yourself off, when you’re done. And kneel at the foot of the bed.”

Dean should argue, roll his eyes, something like that. His body language suggests he has a dozen fairly graphic suggestions about was Sam should do. He still has a dish towel in his hands, which are reaching for the saucepan.

“We doin’ this?” he asks, quietly, flicking his eyes in the direction of the bed for about a quarter of a second, and back at Sam again.

“Yeah, we are. And I’m gonna be hard on you.”

Dean looks like he’s been reconsidering. Maybe he has. It doesn’t matter; he’s still in it. He tosses the dish towel at Sam and heads in the direction of the bathroom, dropping his shirt on the bed as he goes.

While the shower is running, Sam sets a few things on the bed. No, not true. He sets everything on the bed because he still doesn’t know exactly what he intends to do, but the fact that he has options has him straining in his jeans. He puts away the dishes, the cutlery, stares out the window for a few minutes – out here, the stars are so fucking bright it’s hard to believe they’re still not far from a good sized city.

The water is shut off, and maybe three minutes later, the bathroom door opens. Dean emerges from the steam, looking a little turned on and a little pissed off and mostly like he really just doesn’t want to have to make a single decision for himself.

No problem.

He raises his eyebrows, but Sam doesn’t move from where his ass is resting against the edge of the countertop.

“Did I tell you to stand in the middle of the room?” he asks, and Dean almost looks like he wants to grin. He doesn’t, though. He studies the bed, the paraphernalia spread out of the blanket, and his cock begins to rise, visible because his towel is tied obscenely tightly over his hips.

“I ever tell you you’re a little fucked up, Sammy?”

Dean kneels, perfectly centered between the legs of the bed, face just above the level of the mattress. Sam crouches behind him, running a hand up the inside of his thigh, fingering his balls for a moment, not even enough for a real tease. Presses the pads of his fingers against Dean’s taint, just enough to make him murmur a complaint.

Small towns. They don’t all have sex shops. Most don’t. He can only imagine the town reprobates ordering the instruments of their demise online, watching the letterbox for plain brown packaging. Sam wants spreader bars, but he can improvise. There’s only so much stuff they can carry around, anyway.

He loops a long piece of rope over the top of the bed frame and spends a good five minutes tying Dean’s wrists together. It’s a risk; the rope covers several inches of both of his wrists, there’s nothing simple about undoing them. And the wounds underneath still haven’t healed, not completely. But Dean said.

_Be hard on me, next time._

“Little loose,” Dean says. And it’s true. It’s loose. But it won’t be, not for long.

Sam closes his teeth gently over Dean’s shoulder, just enough to make him shiver a little.

One piece of rope around the left side leg of the bed, and one around the right. Dean watches in a half stoned and half disinterested way, until Sam brings the piece closer and ties them around his thighs, just above the knee. It’s clear, then. There is no way for Dean to bring his knees together. It seems to take him a moment or two; he’s not tied in the most comfortable position, but that was never Sam’s intention. All of his muscles are in play, keeping him upright.

If dignity is a muscle, his knees might be trying to come together, too.

Sam runs his hand down over Dean’s back, catching on the back of the towel tied tightly around his hips. It’s not of a lot of use right now. Barely covers his balls. Looks hotter than sin but that’s by the by.

“This can go,” he growls into Dean’s ear, pulling the towel away. Dean seems to seize up. There it is, that dignity. Fuck, it’s hot. Dean wants this. He also doesn’t want it. Mind and body begging for entirely different things. He’s hard, or nearly there, and Sam is probably in a much worse state, denying his own satisfaction as much as he is Dean’s. He closes his hand of Dean’s cock, down close to the base.

Oh, fuck, this is going to be good.

“Can you click your fingers?”

“Why?”

Sam presses against Dean’s back. He’s still full clothed. There’s something about the imbalance, the inequality of that that turns him on. He reaches for one of the gags on the bed. Okay, no, fine, he reaches for the gag that is shaped like a cock. It really is a marvel of biological accuracy. Veins and pores and even the slit in the tip, almost the shape of an eye. Sam can’t even look at the thing without blushing. He brings it to Dean’s eye line, eliciting a groan from his poor, bound brother.

Dean looks over his shoulder, or tries to. And then looks up above his head, at his hands. He doesn’t have a lot of movement, but when he tries to click his fingers, it’s a satisfying sound. A good, loud thwack of the pad of his middle finger against the seat of his thumb.

He opens his mouth.

“Not yet,” Sam says. “Call if you need me.”

He stands and heads for the bathroom, without a look back.

Sam takes his time, showering. He listens out for a hint of noise from Dean, and nothing is forthcoming. He’s heard his brother scream from the opposite end of a haunted shopping mall – no way he’s going to miss so much as a murmur, now, but he listens intently, nonetheless. He strokes himself erect, pinches the tip of his cock so hard it hurts, and then does it again. Brings himself to hard again, imagining the next hour or two, and shuts off the water, stepping out of the shower to grab a towel.

He doesn’t say a word, as he dries himself off, watching out the door of the bathroom. Dean hasn’t moved, but his muscles must be starting to ache.

“You doing alright?”

Dean’s chin is almost touching his chest. He forces it up, nods and lets it drop again. “If me waiting around for you to be done with your shower is some new kink of yours, Sammy, I’m about done with them.”

Sam moves across the room, to stand behind his brother, and cups his hand underneath Dean’s chin. He leans down, pressing his mouth against Dean’s. Dean kisses feebly back as Sam reaches for the penis gag. He holds it for a long moment once he has let Dean’s mouth go.

“Open wide,” he says, and Dean takes a moment, but does as he’s told. Sam slips the rubber dick into his mouth, and Dean resists for a second, but makes no attempt to tap out. The harness clips behind his head, and Dean balks, but since he knows exactly what he has to do to stop this, Sam does nothing.

Sam cups his hand beneath Dean’s jaw, again. Dean is trying to swallow against the intrusion and it might be amongst the hottest five thing Sam has even seen. He can’t do much. Swallow, and swallow again. Let his tongue press up against the underside. He wonders if Dean can feel the plastic veins that snake the thing from the glans to the base, nestled in his mouth.

Sam runs his hand up Dean’s left thigh, and Dean’s muscles tense beneath him. Sam runs his fingers up over Dean’s taint and Dean bucks, hard. Sam presses the pads of his fingers over the tight ring of muscle that guards the entrance to the best place in the entire universe and Dean, still half choking on a cock that threatens to touch the back of his throat if he fights too hard, groans with all the strength he can muster.

“You’re mine,” Sam says, reaching for a tube of lubricant left close so he doesn’t have to move far. His fingers begin to work over Dean’s tight ring, softening the muscle, weakening Dean’s resistance. Dean pushes back against Sam’s hand. “No matter what happens tonight, Dean, remember I’m your brother and _I love you_.”

Dean pulls against the ropes. He can’t close his knees. Sam grabs his ankles, pulling them towards himself, forcing Dean to keep lifting his knees and forcing his spine straighter; every muscle in Dean’s body has to fight to keep him upright and he tries to shout as Sam presses a finger inside him. He’s not gentle and he’s not slow and Dean’s already dribbling pre-come over a carpet that’s probably seen worse. “I like you talking, though,” Sam confesses, working his brother open. “Might take that thing out sooner than I thought. Does your jaw hurt?”

He stretches his fingers, and Dean presses back against him, hungry and needy and all the best things Sam loves about his brother. And he nods.

Sam reaches up to brush one of his clean fingers over Dean’s chin. Wet with saliva.

“Hurt too much?”

Dean pushes back against Sam’s fingers, and shakes his head. Sam grips his chin, and tilts his head back; Dean’s eyes are so dark they’re almost black, but the whites show all the way around. He’s afraid, though he doesn’t want to be, and he’s still turned on. Afraid of what, though? The loss of control? He’s not afraid of Sam; a few weeks ago he would have been on his elbows and knees on the bed, waving his ass in the air and demanding service.

Dean shakes his head, and Sam rubs his finger under the edge of his lip, pats the gag gently. He watches as Dean’s mouth moves involuntarily over the hard rubber and his Adam’s apple shift as he tries to swallow. His eyes flutter open again, wide, turning to Sam, his expression an almost unrecognizable combination of anticipation and nerves.

Yeah, he misses Dean talking but he’s been missing Dean talking since he disappeared. He doesn’t sound like Dean, right now. Maybe silenced is better. And it’s interesting, watching him try to talk, try to react, when he has so little movement available to him.

“You remember our first time, Dean?”

Dean’s hips are rolling hard against the intrusion of Sam’s fingers, working him roughly, spreading him wide – Sam isn’t small by any means and by now it’s been weeks. Never been an every-day thing, they’re happy enough using their hands and mouths and bodies to get each other off but this feels like an occasion that calls for some serious fucking. But he nods, and one elbow moves like he wants to reach out.

Sam nips playfully at Dean’s shoulder and Dean makes a noise like he doesn’t know whether to beg for more or make him stop.

“Asked you a question. You remember?”

Dean pauses, trying to relax, and tries to speak around the gag. Which first time. Sam would make a great dentist, or maybe it’s just that he knows Dean so well he knows exactly what the question has to be. What first time. First time they’d reached for each other in the dark, Sam’s gangly teenage body too eager to be contained, his mouth too desperate to taste everything he’d been missing out on. Stretched out on the bed under his brother’s reassuring weight, only love he’d ever known. The way Dean had looked so guilty, but still hadn’t stopped until he’d come in Sam’s mouth, and Sam had come in his.

Or later. After the fucking Wendigo almost pulled them apart for good after a month back on the road and they’d fought over some dumb decision Sam can’t even remember now, and ended up on the floor of an ugly motel room with Dean’s ankles hooked over Sam’s shoulders (it had seemed strange, at the time, that Dean was shorter than Sam, then, though it wasn’t his main concern. His main concern was with the way Dean stretched around him, spine arching off the ground, chest and cheeks pink. The way his heavy pink tongue had darted out to lick his lips and he’d stared at Sam with those big green eyes and Sam had realized that he wasn’t there because Dean missed their dad but because without John there, Dean could have his brother back _properly_.

Sam had slept alone on the couch that night crying silent tears for Jess but it hadn’t stopped him sharing the bed with Dean the following night).

“Either one,” Sam says, and kisses his way down the rich muscle of Dean’s shoulder. Scars, he has so many scars. Since most of them are accompanied with stories of near death experiences Sam shouldn’t find them so attractive but there’s something about the fact of them, that they’ve kept Dean’s insides inside for so long, that he just does. He traces each one with his tongue, down to Dean’s sides, and bites again, enough to earn him a strangled moan.

“Still safe,” he promises Dean’s ear when he’s done, though there is a stark black bruise sucked into the flesh. Dean might be marked up just now but he still belongs to Sam and he has to look like he belongs to Sam. Sam glances up; Dean’s hands are tight fists, like he’s determined not to tap out.

Sam takes his time, lubing up, the tip of his cock so sensitive it’s almost painful to touch, the cold lubricant a relief against the throbbing heat. There’s the smallest chance he won’t go off in six seconds, which would be nice, after the anticipation.  

“Are you ready?”

Dean rolls his entire body, trying to push back, and that’s probably the best yes Sam is going to get. He’s diamond hard, aching himself, holding on by the skin of his teeth because he doesn’t want to rush. But he pushes the tip of his cock past Dean’s rim, just barely, and breaths, pressing his lips to the back of Dean’s neck, feeling the short hair there prickle his lip (Dean’s due a haircut, and Sam wants to be the one to give it to him), while Dean trembles in his arms. No, not a tremble, tremble makes Dean sound like some nervous junior on a date with an older boy. Dean doesn’t tremble; Dean tremors. He quakes. He’s fucking magnificent.

“More?”

Dean doesn’t even answer, just pushes back, and Sam cries out quietly as he feels himself pulled in, deeper and deeper, Dean so hot and tight around him. Feels like forever since he’s been here. He pushes, knowing Dean can’t be comfortable, pressed against the foot of the bed like that, knowing how badly he must need to be touched. He pushes until he feels his body pressed against Dean’s, until there’s nothing more for him to take. Christ, Dean can take a lot, though, feels like he could take Sam’s entire fist, take his arm. And while that doesn’t necessarily hold much appeal, it does put a picture in Sam’s head, Dean pushing down on the biggest dildo he can find, with his mouth full of Sam’s cock. Dean’s a champion cocksucker; his words, not Sam’s. He prides himself on it.

Sam brushes his fingers over Dean’s throat. Dean is still swallowing and swallowing, Adam’s apple moving up and down. Still with a steady stream of saliva running down over his chin.

Dean pushes back encouragingly, but Sam laughs quietly in his ear. “We’re on my schedule right now,” he promises, though he manages to make it sound like a threat. “I say when I’m ready to go to town on you and I’m not ready, Dean.” He rocks, that’s all. He rocks gently, and his fingers move over Dean’s arms held high above his head; held like this, his arms look like the trunks of trees, every muscle rigid. Must be starting to ache. He can take it. Sam pauses over another scar. He stitched this one himself. It’s probably not entirely healthy, how much Sam likes giving Dean stitches. Or maybe it’s okay. He can tell himself it’s nurturing.

Down over his arms, over his sides, and even Sam’s thigh muscles are burning with the effort of staying steady. He just barely grazes his fingertips over Dean’s cock, catching a little pre-come as he goes.

“Wasn’t sure you’d be able to get hard,” Sam admits. “Feels like this is about something else.” His lips brush gently over Dean’s throat and he follows them with a sharp nip that makes Dean shift suddenly. “But I’m glad you are. Not sure I’m gonna let you come, though.” Empty threat; Sam misses the way Dean’s eyes glaze when he’s been fucked raw and Sam’s got his mouth on his dick and there’s no way he’s not going to let him come, after the weeks they’ve just had; but the threat is the point, and Dean manages to sharpen his mind just enough to shoot him a warning look. It’s a hot warning. Sam will take it.

But for now, he’s done teasing. He wraps an arm tightly around Dean’s waist to keep him close and keep him steady and he starts to really move, hips snapping roughly against Dean’s body. The sound of flesh slapping against flesh fills the room, warring with the sound of Sam’s grunts. His teeth gnash so hard he bites his lip, and he can just smell the copper as it hits the air. He does understand. If he was a vampire he’d probably lock Dean up and never let him leave. But he’d do it right. A few weeks and Dean would be begging to be bitten, begging to be taken. All the same, there is something waking up in Sam, and he recognizes it for what it is; the possessiveness he’s felt for the last however many years waking up and reasserting itself. Dean belongs to him.

He is going to kill those vampires. Every one of them. Whether Dean is in decent shape to help or not. He’s going to take off their heads one by one and see the fear deaden suddenly in their eyes. But later. When Dean is all the way back, when he can sleep without dreaming of them, when he can sleep at all. When he’s back to waking Sam with his mouth or that aggravating wiggle he does to try to inspire Sam’s morning wood to something a little more spectacular.

“I’d tell you to brace yourself,” he growls. “But I like that you can’t. Fuck, Dean. Want you like this. Want you so fucking bad.” He barely hears himself speak; it’s not really his style. Maybe since Dean can’t fill the space between them with his special brand of glorious filth, Sam needs to do it instead? Perhaps.

The muscles in Dean’s back stand out like rope. Sam grips his hips and pulls him back. Dean is so tense the muscles deep inside would push Sam out, if Sam wasn’t equally determined. Dean is making another sound, something Sam can’t understand, but when he glances up Dean’s hands are still clenched; he’s not tapping out. Sam reaches up one handed to flick open the buckle at the back of Dean’s head. Not easy with one hand but no way can he keep up this pace without at least one hand on Dean’s body, pulling him back every time Sam fucks in. He reaches around to the front of the gag and Dean groans in relief as he pulls it out and drops it on the bed. Sam presses three fingers into Dean’s mouth and Dean closes those gorgeous fat lips over them, sucking hard for a moment (his mouth has never been this wet and Sam regrets bitterly he can’t fuck his brother in both holes at once). Dean turns his face and Sam moves his fingers to Dean’s cheek. They kiss hungrily over his shoulder.

“Tell me what you need,” Sam murmurs against Dean’s mouth. Dean never shuts up in bed. Maybe it’s his aching jaw, maybe it’s whatever is going on behind his eyes, but he’s quiet, beyond the choked breaths he manages to force from his throat. “You want more? Harder? Your eyes are almost black.” He’s gorgeous like this. Surrendering like this. Sam is going to keep him fucking forever.

“Make me forget,” Dean says at last, and he’s still rigid in his bindings when Sam shifts squarely behind him again, doubling his efforts. There is sweat pouring down the back of Dean’s neck and Sam can’t help but angle his mouth to taste it, scraping his teeth along Dean’s skin, still relentless in his thrusts. Dean growls, defensive.

“Don’t like my teeth anymore, Dean?” Sam grunts, shifting a knee back so he can gain better purchase against the ground. “You know the word to use.” And Dean doesn’t use it, despite the tiny black marks building up all around his neck, over his shoulders.

He’s so fucking close it’s getting difficult to hold back his orgasm, but he’s not done.

He reaches for Dean’s cock, and Dean growls again, caught between the urge to fuck up into Sam’s hand and the need to push back against his cock. Sam’s muscles are screaming; Dean’s must be worse, but the closest to a complaint he’s voicing is the occasional grunt that almost sounds like ‘more’.

Apparently he has a lot to learn about subbing, but since Sam has little idea what he’s doing either he really doesn’t think it matters. As long as Dean wants it, as long as Dean can sleep tonight, and frankly as long as Sam wakes up with his big brother still secure in his arms he doesn’t really care.

Sort of wants to, though. Sort of wants to keep reading and keep finding out and keep pushing and pushing until he knows how far he can take this, how much Dean can take, how much he wants to.

When Dean’s body locks up like he’s been shot and clamps down hard over Sam’s cock, Sam comes close to losing it, but there’s something about fucking Dean when Dean has come, when he’s finished and ready to rest, something about just pushing him that bit further has always appealed to Sam. Dean wouldn’t be able to hold himself up right now if not for the ropes and Sam’s strong arms. He’d slide bonelessly onto the ground with his green eyes almost closed and that petulant look on his face but he can’t. Sam’s fingers dig into his side and he makes a strangled sound, almost begging.

“What’s that? You’re done?” Sam mouths behind Dean’s ear, darts a tongue out to taste. “Thought I was in charge, here, Dean, what are you complaining about? You wanna be done?”

Dean growls again, says something that could almost be ‘you’re not the boss of me’ and clamps down hard again. It’s too much; Sam can’t hold back anymore, and he feels his balls tighten right up against his body, ready to shoot, and he loosens his grip on Dean’s body as he bucks another half dozen times, all rhythm and elegance lost as he just lets himself finish, the muscles in his arms and thighs liquefying.

He’s barely aware of Dean trying not to slump, until he says, low, almost caught in his throat; “Sammy.”

Sam opens his eyes (doesn’t know when he closed them) and slips from Dean’s body. It’s sort of disappointing; moments ago he’d been unstoppable. It’s hard to get up onto his feet but he unhooks Deans hands from up above him, lets him rest against the foot of the bed.

“You okay?”

“Big bad dom. I’m fine,” Dean says, but he doesn’t sound it.

A little more work to untie his ankles, and maybe he takes his time because it’s gorgeous, the way Dean’s gaping hole is running a stream of white come down the inside of his leg. It’s distracting, and Sam sort of wants to play with it, smear it over Dean’s pale inner thigh, where there’s no hair.

And at last he’s untied, and tries to push back; but he’s been holding the tension so long he stumbles back into Sam’s arms instead.

“I got you,” Sam says, getting Dean up onto his feet and helping him to the bed. Doesn’t feel right not to be touching him but he slips into the bathroom on his own shaky legs and wets a hand towel under the arm water, return to where Dean is lying bonelessly on the bed, to clean between his thighs. He cleans himself up, too, in the bathroom, and stares into the mirror for a moment.

He looks different. He can’t say how.

He turns off all the lights save the one by the bed and crawls under the blanket, manhandling Dean into place until Dean gets stroppy and resistant and tries to lie down on his own, as far from Sam as he can manage. Fuck. Sam’s missed some cue, done something wrong. He’s not expecting the usual, Dean running his mouth about being a porn star, Sammy better rest up because they’re going again in ten minutes, but he’s expecting something. He rolls onto his side, elbow on the bed, head on his hand, his spare hand resting over Dean’s body.

“I don’t know if I did it right,” he says, carefully.

“You’re asking me? You think I make a habit of getting myself tied up and fucked?”

“I thought you liked it,” Sam says. He’d pictured something different. Dean looks over his shoulder and his eyes are still so dark it looks unnatural. And exhausted.

One thing Sam read about that he liked. He rolls Dean into his arms, pulls him up until his head is resting on Sam’s chest. Dean complains quietly, same bitchy tone he uses when Sam finishes a box of cereal or orders a salad. Not really a complaint. Once he’s settled, he’s settled, and after a few minutes his breathing evens out.

“I don’t know if I like it,” he says gruffly.

Sam nods, running his hand from Dean’s neck to the base of his spine.

“Not really sure what I’m supposed to feel, Sammy,” he goes on, and Sam feels a niggling guilt at the back of his neck. “The time you handcuffed me…”

He’s silent until Sam gives his arms a squeeze. “What?”

“First time I’d felt calm in days,” Dean admits. But this isn’t news. Sam knew this.

“And?”

“This was… more.”

There it is, the sense Sam’s done something wrong. Should have gone slower, something, he doesn’t know. Got a nicer hotel room, let Dean get a little drunk (which he hates, but he’d deal).

“You didn’t get what you needed?”

Dean is silent for so long Sam stops stroking his back, figuring he’s gone to sleep, but a few moments later Dean wines quietly, and Sam starts up again.

“Wasn’t figuring on liking it,” is all Dean says, and Sam exhales a breath that had begun to burn his lungs.

––

When he wakes a couple of hours later Sam is slightly disoriented. Hadn’t planned to fall asleep and he feels sort of guilty, not watching his brother when he obviously needs it. But Dean is moving and shifting in his arms and Sam tries to accommodate him. Probably overheating; Sam doesn’t know how many times in the last few years he’s woken to find Dean grumbling that he’s like a furnace.

It’s always a little disappointing, watching Dean scrabble for a colder piece of the sheets, but he always wakes in the morning plastered over Dean’s back again.

“You okay?” he murmurs, voice heavy with sleep, but apparently Dean is fine, straddling Sam’s thighs and reaching for his cock. “Ah, Christ… hnnnghhh.” More noises, noises he can’t spell because when Dean wakes up horny he wakes up horny and apparently, his need for control has reasserted itself. Takes no effort whatsoever to get Sam hard again but then he’s rarely reluctant. Dean is still pretty loose, apparently, because he barely bothers to slick Sam up before he climbs on, head rolling back as he lowers himself onto Sam’s cock. Sam grips his hips, hard enough to bruise. This is their dynamic. Whatever Dean needs, he’ll get, and if he needs to be tied up and fucked raw a couple of times a week that’s one hundred percent fine with Sam, but if he needs this after then that’s pretty sweet too. Dean’s got his own hand fisting his cock as he drives down over Sam’s, over and over, baring his teeth (fuck, he must be sore everywhere, Sam thinks, though they’ve only slept a couple of hours and it’s bound to be worse in the morning).

“Say something, Dean,” Sam growls, but Dean only chuckles in the back of his throat.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you. Maybe I’ll take the gag back. Filthy, Sam. You’ve got a freakin’ filthy mind, you know that?” He doesn’t sound disapproving at all, but then, it’s Dean and as far as Sam’s been able to tell, the filthier the better, at least where Sam’s concerned. At least so far.

He tweaks Dean’s nipple hard enough to make him yelp and Dean comes abruptly, with a shout, coming all over Sam’s chest, splashing his face. Sam has no hope of holding out after that, not that he’s trying particularly hard; still barely awake, desperately wishing he could see the expression on Dean’s face. He rides out his orgasm with his hands on Dean’s thighs, and when he opens his eyes again they’ve started to adjust. He can see the expression on Dean’s face; sort of relaxed, content, if he’s not happy, and fuck, happy has always seemed like a dumb goal to Sam. Content is better.

“C’mere,” he says, and Dean leans into him, a soft kissing turning deeper. He licks his lip, can’t help it, the taste of Dean is like a drug; salt and come and on their rougher nights, just a little blood. Sometimes that fucking horrible cinnamon toothpaste he likes so much. “I love you, you know. Just trying to… I just want you to be alright. Find your way back. I don’t have anyone else.”

“I know,” Dean says, and licks Sam’s face.

“We don’t have to do it again.”

“I know. And next time you want me choking on a cock, it’s gonna be your cock, baby brother,” Dean says, and he rolls over, nestling his ass back against Sam’s rapidly softening dick to sleep.

––

They shower long in the morning, and thoroughly, and separately, because Dean still has huge dark eyes and a look on his face like he really doesn’t care if they get on the road today; and honestly, they don’t have anywhere to be, and Sam isn’t convinced they should leave – but maybe Dean just wants the open road, because when he’s not bitching about rope burns and Sam’s donkey dick and how his muscles ache, classic bow legs possibly a little wider than usual, he’s singing classic rock along with the radio. He’s got a smile on his face a mile wide, perfect white teeth winking at Sam, crow’s feet deep and pretty like Sam likes.

They pack bags, smiling at each other, Dean giving Sam’s ass a squeeze every time he walks by, pausing for some seriously suggestive kissing from time to time. But they pack.

“What do you want me to do with these?” Sam asks, holding up the white, dense plastic bag full of toys. The thing is so discreet it could only have come from a sex shop, Sam thinks. Dean stares at it for a few moments, and reaches unconsciously for his wrist, still sore.

“Put it in the trunk, Sam. No rush.” Probably means he never wants to see it again, never wants to think about that side of himself again. Fine, doesn’t matter, Sam doesn’t care, as long as he has Dean back. Seems a pity, though.

He thinks about that moment. Late last night.

_I didn’t expect to like it._

Whatever. Probably, in another week, Sam will open the trunk and find the bag is gone, and they’ll never speak of it again.

–––––

_Dean_

And things go back to normal. Winchester normal. It's what they're used to. Mostly normal. Sometimes when Sam settles his body behind the curve of Dean's back, and grips his wrist gently, Dean feels a weird ripple of need. Like if Sam would just tighten his grip, just a little bit, just enough to make the tiny bones in Dean's arm groan, he would melt into the goddamn mattress and feel at peace.

But he doesn't. It's weird. Shouldn't be weird but it's weird. Not like Sammy ever had those kinds of tendencies before; gets rough in bed, hell yes, that's the way Dean likes it. But they way he'd looked when Dean couldn't so much as move... There had been something. Something in it. Sometimes Dean looks at his brother and sees nothing but the awkward kid he'd been at sixteen, and still was at twenty-two. But that night, Sam had looked a million years old. Strong, wise, kind, absolutely in command.

“Stop wriggling,” Sam says, into Dean's shoulder.

Dean stops wriggling, and closes his eyes, but sleep doesn't come.

Another state, another monster. There's always another one, and listening out for any news about the vampires, that knife. Dean can't even think hard about them. Still hurts his head. Still makes his wrists burn, though they've healed, same as the bites on his body. He wants them dead, he wants vengeance, he wants that fucking knife back, but more than that, he wants the whole thing to be nothing but a bad dream, and no vengeance is going to bring him that.

Sharing a bed with Sam again, but there's been nothing but some seriously vanilla and largely non-penetrative sex, like Sam's afraid he broke his brother. Which is a pity. Because the longer things are like this the more Dean wishes Sam would just pull out those ropes with that glint in his eye and promising not to go gentle.

He has no idea how to raise it himself. Hell, Dean probably wouldn't say a single thing about anything if Sam didn't go there first. First time they kissed it was Sam and Sam's hands and Sam's mouth and the relief he still hadn't ever even bothered to describe. First time they'd fucked it had been because Sam rolled Dean over and played with his ass like he had some kind of professional training and Dean couldn’t argue with a thing, and still, he couldn't say a word later, couldn't do a thing. He managed to press his ass back encouragingly against Sam's morning wood every day for the next two weeks, long enough so it stopped being an incredibly badly considered idea and just became who they were, what they did. All those firsts. All because of Sam. All Dean had ever managed to do was fall in love, and do his part to keep it going, waiting for Sam to make the next move.

He lies mostly awake with Sam's head on his shoulder - no clue how he'd fallen asleep on his back for any length of time, but his leg had been aching, so it might not have been anything more than that.

Sam's hair fans untidily over his face, and Dean reaches out to take it between his fingers. Used to give him so much crap about it. Now there's nothing he likes better than Sam getting annoyed with it falling in his face, and pulling it into a rubber band at the base of his skull.

So many things he wishes he could actually say to Sam, when all he ever seems to manage is the exact wrong thing.

_I don't need that._

In the middle of sex - fuck yes, he can tell Sam what he wants, can't shut up. The filth never stops. Begging his brother to stuff him full, and fuller, harder, faster, with Sam's hand on the back of his head, holding him down on the mattress. _More, Sammy, fuck, you're the best little brother anyone could ever want, fucking love you, harder, more, Sammy, Sammy, baby, sweetheart, treat me wrong, all the fucking filth he can come up with. Use me, baby brother_. But that's in a soup of hormones. With Sam's teeth in his shoulder and his mouth all bruised.

The rest of the time...

_I didn't expect to like it._

**_I don't need that._ **

He always seems to say no when he wants to say yes.

––

The bag has been in the trunk ever since that night, and sometimes Dean notices it, and sometimes he doesn't. And when he notices it, it's strange to think he sometimes doesn't. Sealed up with a bit of duct tape, but when he runs his fingers over the crinkly plastic bag, he can feel it all, the ropes, soft silk, better against the skin than the rough hemp ropes they use for tying up monsters. He can fool the smooth, round O that would hold his mouth open while Sam fucked into his face; unused. Seems like a waste. Just feeling it there makes Dean's dick twitch, makes him close his eyes. He picks up his duffel, and Sam's, and closes the trunk.

They eat, and watch a couple of hours of crap TV, sitting on an unusually comfortable couch, Dean's head in Sam's lap and Sam scratching through his hair like he doesn't even know he's doing it. Dean tries to imagine he can't move, but he can.

“That bag still in the trunk?”

Sam stops, for a moment, and then he reaches around to thumb Dean's bottom lip open.

“You know it is,” he said. “Thought you would've thrown it out by now.” He's silent for a few moments, and Dean leans in to suck Sam's thumb into his mouth, fellating it slowly until he feels Sam twitch beneath him.

“Why'd you ask?”

_Just say it._

“No reason.”

“Feeling alright?”

“Feelin' good,” Dean says, and tries to focus on _Murder She Wrote_ since it's the only channel that comes through clean, but the spell is broken, and all he can think is how no one shot at close range with that caliber of bullet would be anything more than mincemeat from the waist up, if it was real life.

“I'll get rid of it,” Sam says.

_Just fucking say it._

_Just. Fucking. **Say it.**_

“Don't have to,” Dean says, and Sam's hand moves down over his body. It's enough to get him started, that's for sure. His hips roll as Sam's hand slips between his thighs, rubbing over his entrance, totally inaccessible through the denim and cotton. One massive tease. He shivers, and pushes back, kinda wishing Sam would just maybe slip his hand into his jeans and play with his hole a while. Anything to ease the ache.

“Don't have to,” Sam repeats. Sounds thoughtful. He moves his hand, slipping it up under Dean's shirt, over a handful of new bruises, healing wounds and scars until his fingers find Dean's nipple and he pinches hard. Dean groans, and rolls until Sam has better access.

Sam always has access, though. Whether Dean is on his hands and knees on the bed grunting for more, or sitting stone cold and silent in the Impala, there's never actually a time Dean doesn't want his brother's hands on him.

“Thought you would have thrown them out yourself, by now,” Sam says, and Dean suddenly wishes his own hair was longer, so Sam could pull it.

Just tell him.

“It's your stuff. Not throwin’ out your stuff.”

“Tell that to my Stanford sweater.”

Yeah, that thing had had to go. Probably not for the reason Sam thinks. Dean's always been proud Sam is smart; but that thing had been like a promise that one day, he'd go back to Stanford, and Dean would be alone again.

“I wanted to keep it, Sam.” Heart racing in his chest, almost painfully hard in his pants, not sure when that happened, and something happens. Sam's face darkens. He looks hungry. And he's so fucking huge that when he drags Dean off him and pushes him into the sofa cushions, biting at his mouth, grinding against him, Dean is momentarily breathless. Sam takes his wrists in one huge hand, and pushes them over Dean's head, and Dean just lets go, boneless, unable and unwilling to resist. Controlled. He mutters Sam's name against Sam's mouth, and feels teeth against his lip again. He tastes his own blood.

“Stay there,” Sam says, and Dean barely nods. He doesn't even move his wrists. Doesn't say a word, not even when he hears Sam close the motel room door again, not when Sam returns to the couch, fantastically naked, acres of muscle and gorgeous flesh, chest flushed as his face is. Not a smile on his face but something a hell of a lot darker, and so, so compelling.

He drags Dean off the sofa, onto his knees on the carpet, and takes his time tying his wrists together, behind his back, straining his shoulders. Dean shivers. The room seems bright, and it's not, so he knows what he must look like. Pupils big as saucers, swollen wet mouth. Owned.

“Can you click your fingers?”

Dean almost asks him what the hell he's talking about, but oh, yeah, safe gesture, and he'd sort of prefer to ride by the seat of his pants, but he gets it. He clicks his fingers, and nods. It's good and loud in the silent room.

Sam's voice is almost alien when he says it: “Open wide, Dean,” and Dean opens wide. The cold of the metal O, in the frame that holds his mouth wide, is shocking. He wants these pants off, but that doesn't seem to be on the cards right now. Sam is in control. What Sam wants, Sam gets.

Dean doesn't know what to do with his tongue. He's drooling already, and the humiliation of not being able to swallow properly makes his skin burn with need. He feels Sam settle the buckle on the back of his head. Sort of wishes he could see what he looks like, but that's alright. Maybe next time Sam will snap a few photos.

Next time. Fuck, he's anticipating this become a regular event. Maybe not so regular. Yes, regular. Sam might even get his wish, Dean driving across the country with a dildo strapped inside him, ready and waiting to be unstoppered and filled again.

He strains to watch, as Sam strokes himself harder, inches from his face. Fuck, but Dean can forget how big he is, sometimes, and he's never been explicit about it but the fact Sam keeps himself hairless is hotter than it has any right to be. Dean tries to speak, and fails, some air huffing from the back of his throat and another trickle of saliva running down his chin.

Sam crouches in front of him, for a moment, eyes searching Dean's face. If he's looking for doubt, he's not gonna find any. Dean hasn't wanted anything this badly since the first time he laid eyes on Sam at Stanford, all grown up, still with the puppy eyes and the stupid floppy hair.

“No matter what happens tonight, Dean,” he says, “don't forget I'm your brother. And I love you.”

A kiss on the forehead so hot and so sweet it's hard to believe Dean’s tied up and helpless; and his mouth is suddenly stuffed full, throat forced open. He can barely help the way his tongue moves over Sam's length, struggling for breath every chance he gets...

He doesn't get many.

––

Hours later, he's draped over Sam's body, come still leaking from his very sore ass, jaw aching from being held open so long, and a smile on his face that he can't drop without some serious effort. His mouth tastes like come, and blood, and Sam’s ass, but he really can't bring himself to get up and shower (though the temptation is there to suggest they switch to the other bed to sleep).

Sam's hand moves rhythmically over his back. Until a few minutes ago, he'd been murmuring the most ridiculous shit Dean's ever heard, about how good Dean is, about how good he is to Sam. Enough to make Dean's skin crawl, the first couple of minutes, and then... well, he'd started to crave it like he craves everything else Sam's ever given him, for his whole life. But the silence is nice too.

He closes his eyes, and starts to drift off.

Maybe Dean's right, maybe he doesn't need this. But he wants it. And he's gonna take it. As often as he can get it.

 

 


End file.
